A Happy Marriage: Aubrey's Epiphany

Before I married her, I knew Aubrey was a sexual being. It was obvious, from the way she walked to the way she dressed to the way she talked. A petite, 5'6" frame--she couldn't have weighed more than 110 pounds (later, I found out that was exactly what she weighed.) A thin, 25" waist; glorious, high-riding, firm 34C tits; and 36" hips with a small, tight butt. Nipples literally a half-inch in diameter and just as long, which were almost constantly erect. She had to wear padded bras if she wanted to hide those nipples, and she never wore padded bras.

She had sparkling, vivacious, blue-gray eyes, a quick smile, and thin pale lips. Her face was dusted with a smattering of freckles. I fell for her almost the instant I met her. She was the hottest thing I'd ever seen. I was far from the only guy who had noticed her, but I destroyed all the competition. We were married young and lived in a perpetual state of honeymoon for several years.

In bed (we both saved ourselves for marriage,) things were a little different. I've never figured out why, but it turned out that Aubrey had a lot of hangups around sex. She really enjoyed it, of course, and I was certainly no slouch in the lover department. My dick was just a little over average, 6.5 inches or so, and I knew how to use it--I practiced my technique constantly and paid an almost obsessive attention to learning new tricks. I read voraciously and was always on the hunt for new ways to please my lady, my lady to whom I was always faithful.

Something was missing, though. She enjoyed all kinds of different positions, but talking her into oral took a Herculean effort of will. I had to go down on her for weeks (something she always halfheartedly protested, but which apparently felt good anyways) before she'd consent to taking me into her mouth. And even when I was slobbering out what felt like pints of saliva and swirling and teasing her clit, even when I was inserting my tongue as far as it could possibly go into her pussy, she had very little reaction. She was much more into actual penetration. And even though she tried really hard to please me orally, once she made up her mind to do it, it was never great--something was holding her back.

Talking dirty turned her off, too. At the first hint of any dirty words--"cunt," "cock," "fuck," or anything that remotely resembled swearing--Aubrey would switch off like a light bulb. I learned to keep it clean. We could never settle on a pet name for her "vagina," as she insisted on calling it. I'd tell her, "I'm not your OB-GYN. I don't want to call it by its medical name." But she deplored the words "pussy," "cunt," "snatch," and pretty much anything else I could think of. I eventually gave up referring to it at all.

Other times, it was obvious that her mind was on other things during sex. I'd be doing my best moves--moves that had brought her to very real, screaming, mind-blowing orgasms in the past (and yes, I can tell when she's faking)--which now barely registered. Sure, she'd make halfhearted attempts at pretending to be turned on, but it was obvious from the expression in her eyes and the fact that we'd have to use lube 5 minutes in that she wasn't into it. At those times I felt like I was pulling into a service station.

I don't want to give the idea that it was bad, or anything. Sex with Aubrey was generally good. For a long time, it was satisfying. She enjoyed me, and often climaxed, and I enjoyed her and the feeling of her and the sight of her absolutely gorgeous body. I never even noticed anything was off until several years of experience and talking to other guys convinced me that we were missing something.

It was vanilla sex--but I wanted chocolate. Spumoni. Neapolitan. Rocky Road. I wanted all the flavors--and she wanted vanilla. I didn't start out feeling disgruntled, not even disappointed, but it felt like something was missing. And as time went on, my dissatisfaction grew.

This all came to a head after we'd been married for 10 years. Physically, the intervening time barely affected Aubrey at all. Her breasts were ever so slightly less firm--I preferred that look anyways. She was as thin and petite as ever. If she had a couple more tiny wrinkles than before, they were offset by her greater maturity, the further development of her personality, her greater presence of being. She was still the hottest thing I'd ever seen. From the looks she got when we went out, she was still the hottest thing almost any guy had ever seen.

And yet, those strangers didn't know about our "issues." They didn't know that she was aware that I was growing more dissatisfied with her performance in bed every day. They didn't know that she felt terrible about this; and neither did I. I thought she was ignorant of how I felt. On the contrary. She was perfectly aware, but completely unable to do anything about it. She simply lacked the capacity, and the most earnest will in the world to be what I longed for sexually couldn't change things.

I wasn't aware, but my feelings of disappointment were affecting her outlook on life. I don't even know how she found out--but 10 years living with someone creates an almost telepathic bond. She started out feeling surprised; she honestly hadn't even realized that anything was wrong, because for her, nothing was wrong--her sex life was completely fulfilling. Later this surprise gave way to depression over her lack of ability to change, and this in turn gave way to anger. Anger that was always simmering under the surface; anger at me because I didn't find her satisfying, anger at herself for not being able to satisfy me.

This anger affected everything in our relationship, including, of course, our sex life. Now she was even less animated; she dreaded coming to our bed and did it only because it was required of her. I could tell something was wrong, but I had no idea what it was and couldn't have done anything about it even if I'd known.

I had started masturbating when I was a young teenager, and I'd never stopped when we got married. I discovered the wide world of porn early on, too, and a fast Internet connection let me get all I wanted--the net is a bounteous, vast, varied, overflowing cornucopia of every type of pornography anyone could ever imagine. I thought I was doing this in secret; she was never particularly computer-literate, and I had my own computer down in the den. Since we'd started having our intimacy problems, I made use of porn more than ever.

I don't know how she found out, but she did. And she didn't tell me about it for a month after she found out, which gave her plenty of time to find out all about my sexual fantasies from the kind of porn and erotica I was enjoying. She knew that I preferred stories about unfaithful wives. She knew I liked bondage and BSDM videos. She knew I read a prominent forum in the cuckold community. She couldn't have known, but must have guessed, that I fantasized about her having sex with other men, that I imagined her getting banged by large gangs of huge-cocked guys. Of course, it was just fantasy. I'd never have dreamed of subjecting her to something like that in real life.

Eventually, Aubrey confronted me with what she knew. It was the biggest fight of our marriage. She told me she knew about the porn and the erotica. She told me about how she'd seen me wanking when I didn't think she was watching. And she demanded, angrily, tearfully, that I stop.

Something snapped inside of me. All of the disappointment of the past several years, all of the anger towards her that I had hidden even from myself, all of my pent-up sexual frustration, flew to the surface in a way I had no way of expecting, no way of predicting. So she couldn't satisfy me herself, and now she was trying to deny me the only outlet I had? "NO, you FUCKING BITCH," I hissed angrily, "no fucking way." I'd never talked to her that way before and she recoiled as though I'd slapped her in the face. My heart was pounding and the blood was in my ears and face. I was completely out of control, and I wasn't done.

"If you even had a sexual bone in your BODY, if you were capable of pleasing a man in BED, if you had any idea what a fucking DISAPPOINTMENT you are to me, you wouldn't ask me to stop. You'd beg me to keep it up, so that I don't fucking LEAVE you," I screamed. Her eyes were wide with shock, but she was silent. A single tear streamed down her cheek. She gasped a little and I realized I had shocked her into hyperventilating. At the time, I didn't care. "Good bye. You'll be lucky if I ever come back," I said in a cold, hard voice, and walked out the front door.

It was 10PM. Nobody was up in our neighborhood as I stomped out to the car, got in, started it, and tore off down the street. Adrenaline coursed through my veins and I could barely see through my blinding anger. I didn't pay attention to where I was driving, but I realized later that I was going to the place where I'd asked her to marry me, a beautiful spot on the nearby waterfront of the river that ran through our city. I parked and sat in my car, my head in my hands. I was starting to cool off, now, and realize exactly what I'd just done. After a few moments, all of my rage and energy from before was gone. I felt deflated, like an old balloon. I'd talked to the woman I loved in the worst possible way, in a way that you wouldn't address your worst enemy.

I looked over at the bench where I'd sat her when I went down on one knee and presented her with an engagement ring. It was easily visible from where I was parked. My mind cast back to that day, over a decade ago, when we'd been full of so much happiness and hope and possibility and promise.

I sat in my car and cried for an hour. Later I picked up my mobile phone and called her, intending to apologize as best I could and throw myself on her mercy. It was midnight.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded like she'd been crying the entire time since I'd been gone.

"Aubrey, I am so sorry. I can't believe what happened. I can never say the right words to apologize for something like that, but maybe if--"

"Shut up. Just shut up."

"But listen, I'm tryi--"

"I know what you're trying. I can't believe you're trying. After that, I don't know why you'd ever try again."

"Oh honey, oh baby," I said, the panic rising and gripping me by the throat. I felt like I couldn't breathe.

She interrupted again. "We need a break. I don't know if we can be together again. We need a break from each other. I don't want you to come back here for three months. Not for three months, do you hear me? We'll see then!" Her voice rose throughout her speech and was a shrill scream by the end.

"Nothing I can say could change your mind?"

Composed now, Aubrey spat out "Nothing. Three months. Don't call me, don't come by, stay the hell away from me for three months."

Three months. Three months is a long time. It's an eternity, a vast desert wasteland, when the woman you love is out of your reach and you know it's your fault. I spent the time living at a friend's house, a friend who knew better than to ask too many questions. It sucks crashing on someone's couch when you've been sleeping on a king-size bed for a decade. It also sucks being without any kind of sexual contact for that long. In some kind of bizarre, misguided penance, I refused even to "take care of myself" in that time. I felt this kind of dry spell was exactly what I deserved.

Three months to the day after the "incident," as I'd taken to calling it in my mind, I picked up my phone and called her again. She was waiting for me, waiting by the phone.

"Listen, I'm SORR--"

"I know you are," she cut me off. "I know. Just come home to me. I miss you, and I can't live without you."

My heart soared! She was taking me back! She forgave me! I rushed home, as happy as anyone could possibly be. When she opened the door, I knew everything was going to be back to normal.

She welcomed me with open arms and a broad smile, but when I tried to kiss her she would only peck me on the cheek. Confused, I tried again, but she pulled back and gave me a warning glance. "You do this on MY terms," she said. "I'll tell you when it's time."

It was like someone hit me in the stomach. I wasn't forgiven after all. What was she playing at? Where was this going? I was so full of regret for what I'd said and done, though, I was so remorseful, that I was willing to put up with anything she wanted to dish out. I deserved it. I was scum.

Everything was almost back to normal--almost. It was amazing to me how quickly we fell back into our old patterns of work, household chores, and nighttime television. Everything was back to normal, except for our sex life.

Our sex life simply didn't start up again. It was like we were two roommates. At night, Aubrey would put on long-sleeved pajamas and old granny pants where she used to wear a tiny nightie and thong. She'd roll over with her back to me in bed, clearly signaling that advances would be firmly rejected. And I didn't even try--I knew how she felt and again knew that I deserved it. During the day she wore the same fetching clothes she always had, tight shirts and low-rise stretch jeans, or cleavage-baring blouses with pencil skirts. But at night, at night she was all business--the business of sleeping. I still didn't masturbate, either, again out of a sense of justice and remorse. I didn't deserve pleasure.

Another funny thing was the makeup she'd bought while I was gone. Red, red lipstick. Thick black eyeshadow. And the clothing I found in her closet--several small, short minidresses with deep necklines and high slits, dresses that couldn't possibly fall much below her butt cheeks. I couldn't wait for her to get back into the swing of things and wear these exciting new outfits on our dates.

One other change in her behavior since we got back together was the nightly trips "out." Prior to our separation, Aubrey went out at least once a week--usually to run some errand, like grocery shopping, or to have drinks with her girlfriends. Since I'd gotten back, though, she went out every night. She didn't even ask, she just told me each morning that was going out that night. I didn't argue--it was a miracle that she'd taken me back at all and I wanted to be the perfect husband for her. I'd always complained in the past that she didn't go out enough, so this was just what I'd always told her to do anyway.

A week after she'd let me come back home, I found a piece of lingerie in the laundry--in the LAUNDRY--a merrywidow with a lace-up back, open nipples, and a matching crotchless pair of panties. At last! She'd put this into the laundry so that I'd find it. This was a message to me that our dry period was almost over. It had all been a tease! Even though I still didn't feel worthy of her, I was willing to go with whatever she wanted.

"What gives, here? What is this all about?" I asked casually, holding up the merrywidow. I could barely contain my delight.

Aubrey raised her eyebrows at me with a little secret smile on her face, a smile I thrilled to. "Oh, that's nothing. Something you'll find out about soon enough. Wait a week." Now I was stumped. What in the hell was going on, here? I started to get angry, but then I remembered what I'd done, how I'd treated her, what I deserved. A week? A week was nothing, if it meant she finally forgave me. I couldn't help feeling like there was a joke I wasn't part of, though.

She let drop other hints throughout the week--one morning, on my way to work, I found panties in the back seat of my car, slightly damp panties, which she'd obviously left there for me to find. Another time I came home to find an open bottle of lube and an unopened condom package on the nightstand. Friday afternoon, the day before our big night, my desk phone at work rang. When I picked it up, I heard my wife pretending to moan and gasp in ecstasy, as though she was in the throes of sexual delight. Instant hard-on! I could barely concentrate for the rest of the day at work. When I got home and asked her about it, she only gave me the same secret smile she'd had when I asked her about the lingerie. The tease, the terrible tease.

It was finally Saturday night. I could barely see straight, I was so full of anticipation and relief that she was finally accepting me back as her lover. It was a good thing no cops had set up speed traps on my homeward commute, because I would have gotten the mother of all speeding tickets. Almost bursting with anticipation, I opened the front door to our house, walked up the stairs, and started down the hallway to our bedroom. As I walked, I heard a funny noise--a kind of slurping, squishing noise. What could it be?

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when I opened the door to our bedroom. Aubrey was laying on the bed, completely nude. I hadn't seen her nude since she'd taken me back, and the sight was breathtaking--literally breathtaking. I could barely breathe.

Her legs were spread wide open. I noticed, in a detached sort of way, that she hadn't shaved her pussy since I'd left--it was covered with curly, brown hair. Gripped tightly in her left hand was a large, pink, obviously expensive dildo, which she was thrusting in and out of her snatch, about two strokes per second. Her breasts, flattened by her supine position, moved back and forth, back and forth, with the movement of her hand. I stared at her large, beautiful nipples as they moved up and down. They filled my consciousness like two bright lights and for a moment were the sum total of my existence, those nipples, swinging up and down.

I came out of my reverie. A portion of my mind made me aware that she had never even masturbated before, as far as I knew, even though I'd begged her to in the past. And this fake cock was easily an extra inch longer than my very real, very hard, very turgid cock, and probably a good half-inch bigger around.

It was clear that she was close to orgasm. Every inch of her was covered with sweat. Her face was red and she was gasping in a high, thin voice. Her mouth was a rictus of delight, her nostrils flared, her eyes screwed tightly shut. Tendons stood out on her neck and on her inner thighs. As she came, she arched her back and for a second or two only her heels and the back of her head touched the mattress. She screamed in a bestial, guttural way that I'd never heard come from her before. My god. My god.

She collapsed on the bed, spent, like one of those tiny toy wooden horses that collapse when you push the button on their base. She left the dildo in her pussy and it gripped the base tightly, her stretched labia minora convulsing slightly with aftershocks from her orgasm, the fake balls buried in her pubic hair. She opened her eyes, slowly, luxuriously, and saw me.

And said, "Oh, it's you."

Oh, it's you? That's all I got? "Yeah, it's me. I've been looking forward to this for a month and a half."

The secret smile again. "I bet you have." The smile faded.

Looking at the ceiling with a detached expression, Aubrey said, "Take your clothes off." Peremptorily. Casually. Without any doubt that she wouldn't receive instant obedience. And she was, of course, correct. I would do anything to have her at that very moment in time, and whatever new game she was playing was completely outside of my experience. I hadn't even recovered from the shock of seeing her fuck herself. I stripped naked. My hard-on raged, as well it should after witnessing such a performance. She looked at me with a detached expression. Reaching down between her legs, she gripped the base of the dildo with her right hand and pulled. As it slid out, it made a slight sucking noise and she closed her eyes. The corners of her mouth turned up in a shadow of the intense pleasure she'd shown a moment before.

She set the dildo sticking straight up on the nightstand, and stood up. The artificial phallus pointed obscenely at the ceiling. God, she looked good--better than the first time I'd seen her naked, all those years ago on our wedding night. Toned and yet soft, tummy firm, breasts firm, butt firm. Better than any model from any porn flick I'd watched, ever. I swore to myself I'd never look at another porno again.